


Doctor’s Orders

by AndyArchives



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Arm and hand injury, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mention of Past Medical Abuse, cw: needles, in which I wish McCoy was my doctor..., medical anxiety, mention of parental abuse, mention of parental death, spones - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27378469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndyArchives/pseuds/AndyArchives
Summary: Otherwise known as “me projecting some medical trauma.” Also known as “why can’t every MD be McCoy jfc”
Relationships: Bones/Spock, McCoy/Spock, Spock/Bones, Spock/McCoy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 90





	Doctor’s Orders

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: this fic contains mention of past medical abuse, parental abuse, and parental death. Also CW FOR NEEDLES Steer clear if any of those are your triggers!

The first time Spock came into the sick bay, Bones had absolutely no clue what to do with him. He was comforted in knowing their new Science Officer was at least half-human anatomy wise, but the other half was what puzzled him. He’d read on Vulcan physiology, but never worked with it. He wanted to know as soon as possible what readings counted as normal—that way he’d at least know when to be concerned.

He scanned him, weighed him, and tested his strength. Towards the end he had to take some blood back for testing. It was routine to check an officer’s blood biweekly to scan for the rare diseases a tricorder couldn’t pick up. 

“Now I need to draw some blood,” said Bones as he unwrapped a needle. “The process hasn’t changed in centuries. I assume you know what’s coming?” 

Spock nodded. 

That was when he noticed it. He thought he was losing his mind at first, but all the signs were there. Spock’s pupils were dilated to the point his eyes appeared fully black. His fingers dug into the edges of the bio bed, and his knuckles were white from strain. His muscles were tense, and upon looking closely, trembling. Even his face was flushed in its own way, a touch of green reaching his cheeks.

“Alright,” McCoy mumbled, taking Spock’s left arm and turning it over so he could find a good vein. 

He started to approach Spock with the needle, slowly, since he knew he was nervous. As soon as the needle came close, Spock slipped off the table. In one fluid motion, a cool hand gripped McCoy’s wrist and twisted his arm at an awkward angle. His eyes followed the needle and its attached parts as they scattered across the floor. Spock got a hold of Bones and pushed him back against the wall behind the bed. 

His head bumped against the wall, but he was surprised at how little force Spock used. A second after recovering from the impact, Spock’s forearm pinned him firmly to the wall.

Bones internally cursed his tendency to clam up and focused on breathing, even though it pinched slightly. 

Bones returned to his body and looked up at him. Even the fist clenched against his shoulder trembled. He could feel from what little physical contact they had that Spock was shaking even harder than before. Bones realized quickly that Spock didn’t want to hurt him—he’d just gotten scared and disarmed him out of instinct.

“I’m sorry,” Spock said as he came back to himself. He released McCoy. “I’m so sorry.” He backed away several steps, his features pulled inward in shock. 

“You feel any better now?” asked the Doctor, rubbing his aching collarbone in a way he hoped looked casual. He threw in a smile. 

“I apologize, Doctor,” he said, his voice low and coming out like a shudder. “You may continue.”

“Oh goody! You gonna try and break my wrist again?” Bones chuckled, despite himself. This was definitely not his first time a patient had gotten physical with him. “I don’t think so, buddy. Come back after some R & R. You seem stressed.”

Spock opened his mouth to argue, then stopped, likely realizing if he retorted it would be a lie.

“I know you didn’t want to hurt me. You think you’re the first person with medical fear that’s come through my sick bay? Scotty once gave me a black eye in an attempt to get away from an...intimate examination. I told him over and over he could postpone it but the stubborn asshole waited until the very last minute to realize he was scared shitless.”

Spock huffed, his lips quirking upward as he tried to calm himself enough to laugh. 

Spock swallowed, eyes darting to the floor. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Spock looked relieved. Maybe even...surprised?

“You’re certain about postponing,” said Spock, a statement more than a question. “I’ve...never been given the option to back out at the Doctor’s office before.”

“Whoof. I can’t imagine anything harsher than a Vulcan doctor,” Bones chuckled, picking up the materials he’d gathered for drawing blood. He put the items back in their case. 

“You can go,” Bones said. “Take a breather.” 

“...thank you, Doctor,” Spock said, with a little note of relief in his voice. “But that would be illogical. Proceed with your examination.”

He sighed and signaled Nurse Chapel, asking for clean equipment. McCoy told her he’d dropped the tools accidentally. He gave her a cheeky smile as she chided him for “being a klutz.” When she left, Spock appeared confused.

“Doctor,” began Spock once they were alone again. “Forgive me, but...I am curious about your response to Nurse Chapel. Why did you lie to her about why you dropped the tools?”

“What happened wasn’t any of her business. I know you’ll ease up and get used to the grind around here soon enough—no need to open the door for more gossip between my nurses. They’re bad enough as is.”

“That is...logical,” said Spock.

“Thank you,” said McCoy.

He got a second needle and prepped it. He noticed, out of the corner of his eye, Spock was silently preparing himself, stooping his shoulders and gripping the bed but breathing more easily this time. He let go of one last breath and at last, he stopped shaking. McCoy wanted badly to reach out, to comfort him, but something was telling him to pull back. 

“So...big tough Vulcan-strength guy can’t handle a little needle? I think I have my next Halloween costume planned.”

“...’Halloween,’ Doctor?”

“Hold still, I’ll explain it.”

Spock glanced down at his arm again, a hint of panic in his eyes striking back up again. McCoy acted accordingly.

He reached out and spanked Spock on the arm, not hard, just enough to distract him. Spock looked at McCoy.

“Needle’s coming, said Bones. “Don’t look down at your arm again unless it helps, otherwise I’ll smack you again.”

Spock’s mouth quirked up at the corners.  
He sanitized the patient’s arm and broke skin in a half second. The needle slid right in, and a moment later, dark green blood was filling up the tube. 

Spock’s face went blank; it seemed like he had barely noticed the needle as it went in. His eyes moved towards his arm, then darted away. He let out a slow, even breath, and closed his eyes.

“Anyway, Halloween is an old earth holiday. It originated in Mexico and has been appropriated and re-interpreted a million times over. It used to be called ‘the day of the dead.’”

“Ah,” Spock said, with some recognition. He was halfway through the blood draw, and the signs of anxiety in him were nearly gone. “So it is a day of mourning?”

“Used to be. Then the US made it into a whole thing where people dress up in costume. It’s still celebrated that way on earth but it’s no longer as popular. Definitely messed up, but that’s human history for you...”

“What is the connection between the costumes and a day of mourning?”

“The costumes are supposed to be scary or death-related. I guess you could say it’s the time of year that humans allow themselves to think about mortality. We tend to avoid it as a subject so addressing it once a year is...I don’t know. Thrilling? Exciting? I never understood the appeal, personally.”

“Fascinating...”

“You’re all done,” McCoy said, slipping the needle out with ease. 

Spock took a low, soft, very deep breath. 

Mccoy took a look at the forest green blood in the container and chuckled. “Can’t wait to see what these tests say. ‘We found chlorophyll, is your First Officer a plant?’”

“My blood does not contain chlorophyll, the green color comes from—,”

“—don’t lecture me on what is and isn’t in your blood. I’ll figure it out after the testing and do my own research. I’ll ask you a question about your weird body when and if it becomes relevant.”

Spock exhaled swiftly through his nose, another almost-laugh. He couldn’t help but notice the way the corners of his eyes and mouth were now slack with relief. 

“Well you’re done,” said Bones. “You can go on, now.”

Spock left the sick bay, leaving the doctor stranded inside his own mind.

*

The next time Spock was in sick bay for a significant amount of time, it was after McCoy had operated on Sarek. It was easily the hardest surgery he’d ever had to perform. Spock tried to leave right away, but when Bones mentioned they needed to detain he’d appeared...almost relieved.

Another oddity: Spock was quiet, resigned to being kept in sick bay for four days. This came from the same man who had once threatened to snap his neck for asking him too many questions about Pon Farr—an affliction that was actively threatening to kill him.

He spent a day’s time in a supervised Vulcan healing coma, and afterward, they’d helped him out of it. Despite his readings being safe, Bones could see something still lingering over him. He needed to test him.

“Well physically you’re okay, but there are some new symptoms that...frankly concern me. If you’re not opposed to it, I think further testing should be done. You could also go to work, but it would be against my word as a physician.”

This was his test. Spock had the “logical” option of ducking out. He also had an excellent doctor-sanctioned excuse to stay in sick bay if he needed the rest.

“I suppose,” he said, slowly, “it is most logical to follow your orders, Doctor. What symptoms have I displayed that concern you?”

“Symptoms of depression.”

Spock’s eyebrows, both of them this time, flew upward. “Impossible. You cannot keep me here for symptoms of a disease I am unable to have.”

“You are able to have depression,” he said, “You’re half human and thus susceptible. Let me ask you: have you had any difficulty eating? Sleeping? Picturing your life more than a couple years down the road?”

Spock kept his mouth firmly closed.

“If you don’t respond, I will assume you mean ‘yes.’”

Spock folded his lips under his teeth, his mouth forming a solid line.

“And emotionally. Have you been feeling...hopeless? Sad? Losing interest in your normal hobbies? Loss in appetite? Thinking others would be better off without you?”

The line did not budge. Spock stared at the ceiling. 

“I’ve had these symptoms for years and functioned quite adequately, Doctor.”

“But they haven’t been as bad as they’ve been since your father’s surgery in a long time, am I right? Depression likes to rear its head after being reminded of certain past trauma. Like...seeing your dad again for example.”

Spock was silent for a long time, his head tilted towards the Doctor, but his eyes turned away. 

“You know nothing of my father and I’s relationship, Doctor.”

“You’re right,” he said. “So on the topic of your sleep habits: are you sleeping too much or too little?”

Spock blinked, thrown off by the question. “Too little,” he replied.

“You want some drugs for that or no?” 

“I’ll be fine.”

McCoy snorted. “You’re just gonna go shootin’ through life without so much as antidepressants? Over half the crew’s on those. Bold choice.” 

“Forgive me, Doctor,” said Spock, his brow furrowed in confusion. “How long do you intend to keep me here?”

“You can walk out the door now for all I care,” he shrugged. “The captain already has. I’ve done my evaluation. I would recommend you receive some psychotherapy, along with a mild trial of antidepressants. But, you know...your diagnosis, your decision.”

Spock sat upright, his feet touching the ground. “You asked me about my depression being related to seeing my father again. How do you suppose those two things are related?”

McCoy’s brow quirked upwards. “Family is that one old wound that can always flare back up, isn’t it? Good or bad it’s considered kind of a...tender spot.”  
A shadow passed over Spock’s face. “I understand...”

Leonard remained quiet. He sat down, tentatively, in a chair next to Spock. “You know...when my old man passed, I went straight into a job at Star Fleet. I didn’t give myself the chance to grieve his death. The pain just...festered. I can talk myself out of the hole most days, tell myself it wasn’t my fault, but family stuff just has a way of getting to you. And grief, for humans at least, is something you can never quite get rid of. It changes you.”

“My father is not dead,” said Spock. “There is no logical reason for me to grieve him.” He paused. “And yet ‘grief’ is the only word I can summon to describe...how I think about him.” 

“You mean ‘feel?’”

“I’m sorry?”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘feel.’ How you feel about him is different than how you think about him. Really different.”

“I do not understand.”

“Well I can sit around and say I think about my dad passing with general contentment on how I handled it, and I don’t regret anything, but the real feelings I have about how he died—how I failed him as a doctor and chose to let him pass on...those feelings are more muddled than anything I have to say or think about him.”

“It...doesn’t make sense,” said Spock, his eyes crinkling at the corners in thought. “Vulcans grieve, but we accept the reality right away.”

“But you do grieve.”

“Of course.”

“He doesn’t have to be literally dead for you to grieve him. Sometimes...a person being dead to you hurts almost as much. Sometimes more, if they’ve really hurt you.”

“Is that why this is happening?” 

“Most likely. Only you can tell me for sure.”

Spock turned his head away from McCoy. He noticed a sparkle in his eye and barely registered the restrained tears as he turned his head and sighed. 

He’d never seen Spock like this—he’d never seen Spock so much as tear up, and even now as he was seeing it he could swear it was an illusion. He stood and approached Spock, who was still sitting upright on the bio bed. The tears in his eyes were not, in fact, a trick of the light.

“You made a hard damn choice back there,” said McCoy. “I know others had a hand in it, but it was still your choice at the end of the day.”

“My hand was very forced in the matter.”

“I know. I also know how stubborn you are, so I know the choice was difficult. You just helped the man that hurt you growing up. You helped him live even though you’d been thinking of him as essentially dead for years already. He came so close to saying something kind about you, and—,”

“Stop,” Spock said, his voice coming out in a shudder. He pinched the inner corners of his eyes. Bones couldn’t tell if he was doing it to clear tears from his view. “I’ve made sense of it.”

Bones let out a low, deep breath. “Well...anyway, you’re free to go. And technically I do double as the psychiatrist here, so...”

Spock leveled him with a look. Bones switched his approach.

“I’m not your only option. This whole thing is up to you, remember? You don’t have to pursue any treatment you don’t want to. I just...want you to know you can talk to me. I’m ordered to keep a tight lip. I won’t even tell people we’re meeting if you like.” McCoy said. 

The features of Spock’s face began to soften. His mouth relaxed and his posture straightened. 

“Thank you Doctor. I will keep that in mind.”

With that, Spock ignored the curious stare Bones was giving him, and left the sick bay. 

*

“Goddamn stupid green-blooded son of a bitch,” growled McCoy, storming into the sick bay with Spock trailing him. “Oh, by ‘son of a bitch’ I’m referring to Sarek, not Amanda.”

“That’s fair,” Spock groaned, following him with slight difficulty. His entire right arm was shattered and his hand was twisted at a painful looking angle. A spotted trail of green blood followed him as they made their way to a bio bed. 

Every inch of his right forearm and hand was dripping in forest green blood. The Vulcan was shaking from the pain of it all, but putting on a strong front. 

“Fucking stupid asshole,” Bones growled, heading straight for the cupboard where he kept his medical equipment. “Oh, a giant heavy alien is attacking the Doctor and the Captain? How about I just shove my arm in front of them and let said monster crush my hand and forearm into oblivion! That should be dandy!” He noticed Spock hadn’t sat down at a bio bed yet. “Lie down, you stupid prick,” McCoy ordered.

Spock obeyed and watched with curiosity as the Doctor stormed over to him with his medical kits and slammed them on the table. He’d washed his hands already, but threw on gloves due to the amount of blood that was pouring out of Spock.

“Nurse! I need a nurse to get me some T-negative Vulcan blood stat!” he shouted. A passing nurse replied “yes, Doctor” and changed their path accordingly.

“God, who do I have to fuck to get some blood over here?” McCoy grumbled.

“Doctor, I fail to see how this choice of obscenities will aid you,” noted Spock, his voice still straining from the pain of it all.

“It helps because I’m angry at you!” he yelled. “Stepping in front of a ten ton creature and hoping your Vulcan strength would protect us? I’ve never seen something so goddamn stupid. And downright negligent, at that! Put your arm under the reader.”

Spock, with a strained groan, managed to place his arm under the machine that would read the broken bones in his arm and hand. He was panting from the pain. McCoy couldn’t help but hold off on the pain medications for this part—he was furious with him, and figured he could use the extra minute of pain as a reminder to never do something so stupid again.

“Congratulations, your hand is salvageable. But if you’d broken it about three more times near your wrist you’d be getting fitted for a cybernetic hand.”

“I am fortunate I did not break my hand badly enough to need that.”

“You’re damn right you are!” said McCoy, lifting the reader away from Spock’s arm. “Alright, there seems to be no comfortable way to get that uniform off of you so you’ll have to join Jim in the Ripped Shirt Club. Congrats.” McCoy took out a pair of scissors. “You know, I sincerely hope you don’t have a sick fantasy about this kind of thing because that would just make my fucking day.”

“I have no such affliction, Doctor,” Spock said, through gritted teeth. 

“Good. Now brace yourself. You’re gonna be in that black t-shirt for a while.”

Leonard took hold of the fabric of the blue uniform on Spock’s back and separated it from the black undershirt. He hacked at the blue fabric up to the nape of his neck and then gently trimmed down his injured arm. The blue shirt came away and revealed the nasty injury underneath it. 

Bones took one look at it and bit back a wave of anger. “You ought to count yourself lucky to have such a friendly doctor. I ought to refuse you pain meds with how stupid you acted.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. 

“I’m still gonna give you pain meds,” he clarified. “But I mean it: you gotta stop using your body like a shield. Especially when it comes to your hands. A full human could get along just fine with a cybernetic hand but you...” McCoy’s voice broke. He coughed and tried to cover it up. “A Vulcan losing their hand loses so much more than your average human. It’s like losing an eye, or declawing a cat or trimming off their whiskers.” 

Spock’s face became grim as he winced through the pain. McCoy turned his back, too angry to look at him, and took his time prepping the hypo with painkillers.

“Is that why you’re angry with me?” asked Spock, straining to speak through the pain. 

McCoy was both surprised and annoyed when tears sprang into his eyes, and fell just as quickly as they’d come. He sniffed, quickly, and said, “Yes.”

He turned around. He wasn’t sure if it was from the pain of the injury, a trick of the light, or genuine regret, but Spock’s eyes were deeply sorrowful.

“I am sorry, Leonard,” he said.

Bones leapt to his side as he noticed his friend squirm again from the pain in his hand. He injected the hypo and put it aside. Slowly, Spock came back to attention. Leonard took out the apparatus for mending bone and tissue: a cylindrical pen-like instrument. 

“You’re correct,” he said, “perhaps there was...a less rash way to solve our problem.”

“Don’t apologize for your actions now, Bowl-cut. You did what you did, and you saved the lives of the whole team—I just wish you weren’t so damn reckless about it. We care about you, you know? A Vulcan loses a vital part of the body when they lose a hand. Treat yours better or I’ll haunt your ass when I die.”

McCoy’s hand passed over Spock to reach the sanitizing spray. He stopped as Spock lifted his uninjured hand, two fingers extended the way Vulcans did when they kissed. His fingers brushed McCoy’s hand, and inside their Vulcan bond he could feel a deep, pained sense of regret, and sorrow over having upset him. He let his hand linger as Spock’s fingers gently traveled down and away from him.

McCoy returned to work, ignoring the rush of feelings Spock had given him a glimpse of. 

His radius and ulna had snapped cleanly and made for an easy fix, thank the stars. His pinkie, also, hadn’t fared as badly as the rest of his hand. The Doctor worked in silence until his whole pinky was free of breaks and scratches.

He put his medical tools down and sighed. “Promise me you’ll treat your hands better,” said Bones.

“I will do my best,” he conceded.

Bones smiled, and slipped his pinkie out so it could hook around the only uninjured finger in Spock’s right hand.

“Promise me,” said Bones.

“I promise.” said Spock. 

*


End file.
